


And when you reach out, all there are is uppercuts; And they are the cause for the ones on your wrist

by Splat_Dragon



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Seriously Hosea, Small mention of blood, no beta we die like men, quotes from the game, you say you know he's smarter than he acts but then you say that stuff!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:22:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23134597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: "They call you stupidWorthlessTell you you're not worth it""Even you can understand this,"“Let me row, you boys are too old for real labor no more.”“And you’re too dumb for anything else!”Everyone thought he was too dumb to care about what they said, or that he was just too thick, that words couldn't bother him.But they were wrong.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 67





	And when you reach out, all there are is uppercuts; And they are the cause for the ones on your wrist

Arthur's hands shook.

The blade was cold, just the slightest pinprick of pain as the tip indented his skin.

_"Even you can understand this,"_

He chewed his lip, wished he had a cigarette. Thought back to the pack he had in his tent, but that would mean walking through camp.

And they were too damn cheerful, sitting around the campfire and singing whatever that song it was Javier always played, happy drunk and bickering but not in a mean way (or, at least, for the most part.)

He couldn’t take it.

  
  


The thing was, Arthur couldn’t even say what had set him off.

Some off-handed comment, maybe. Maybe it was that they were partying, sitting, drunk, while he was exhausted from working, only a few hours sleep for the he-couldn’t-count-how-many days in a row. Or maybe nothing at all, and he had just, finally, snapped.

  
  


He was just so damn tired.

No one was _helping_ him. They were all sitting around camp, drinking and lazing. When they went out, all they brought back were a few cents, a bat wing here or there ( _really_ Marston?). No one was running heists, taking jobs. Charles was helping as much as he could, hunting as much as possible, but he was just _one_ person. No one else was helping, but still he was accused of not caring about the gang anymore if he tried to take more than a few hours to rest.

And how long had this been going on, really? How long had it been since he was their son, since he’d been as wild and free as a bandless, herdless stallion? How long had it been since he’d turned into little more than a workhorse, strapped down to an overloaded wagon and made to haul it up a hill without even its master’s help?

And how much longer until he gave out? Collapsed to the ground, couldn’t get back up and had to have a bullet put between his eyes.

_“Let me row, you boys are too old for real labor no more.”_

_“And you’re too dumb for anything else!”_

Then again, it wasn’t like he was good for anything else.

  
  


"Who's out there?"

Arthur jolted, fumbled the blade, cold clarity rushing through him as he tore a ragged gash in his arm.

"It's Arthur!" 

The knife dropped to the ground, and he stepped on it, hiding the blood-stained metal as Hosea stepped through a break in the trees, rifle in hand. The man's face smoothed out at the sight of him, and Arthur hurried to rest his arms behind him as casually as he could, pressing the heel of his palm down on the newest wound, feeling it pour blood all the faster.

"Was wondering where you went off to son," Hosea chuckled, and Arthur really hoped he was grinning, because it didn't feel like it but if he spread his mouth any wider he was going to look like a rat snake going after an egg.

"Just had to take a piss, Hosea." he went with the first excuse that came to mind, fought the urge to cringe considering there were plenty more places to stop and piss with how far he had walked, and hoped that he seemed drunk enough that it would work.

Hosea shook his head in that way of his that he only did around Arthur and John, and he felt sixteen and stupid again, shame curdling in his gut, and without thinking he dug his fingers into the wound, tearing it wider, burning tongues of pain lashing up his arm, 

"C'mon Arthur. Javier was about to play Louisville Maid last I heard, that's your favorite, isn't it?" and either he really did seem drunk, or Hosea couldn't be bothered, but Hosea went along with him, turning back on his heel back towards the camp, where he could make out the far off sounds of off-key caterwauling, Javier's voice ringing above all the rest, the smell of smoke strong in the air.

Arthur knelt long enough to grab the knife, wiping it clean on the dewey grass, before shoving it back on his belt and heading back to camp, eyes locked onto Hosea's back. Hosea was an old shyster, and never one to fall for his or John's lies.

He really must be drunker than he thought, then.

Or maybe the blood-loss was getting to him.

Or maybe… maybe Hosea just couldn't be bothered.

After all, as much as Hosea pretended to think more highly of him than most did, in the end, he was just like everyone else.

_“I ain’t playing dress up. You know how I feel about that.”_

_“Of course you’re not. You’re… you’re a clown’s… idiot… brother.”_  
  


_“Hosea, please…”_

_“I’m the clown! You’re the idiot! Just… look… sad and keep quiet. Even_ you _can do_ that _, Arthur.”_


End file.
